Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
Watchman chats with wifey over mobile.
Milkman milks his cow, while the mistress cooes over mobile.
The Newspaper boy slips the paper, as his pal texts him dirty over mobile.
The Minister snoozes on his molls bosom, as his wife gives him a missed call over mobile.
The business man cuts a deal, big one worth a billion kills, over mobile.
The bored house wife, chats with another, cursing her mother out law, over mobile.
The lover sends a ILU to his three girl friends at the same time, over mobile.
All three girls show the same text to their girl pals at the same time, over mobile.
Heroines, heroes, singers, dancers, porn stars, what not, all give shots, over mobile.
We bank, we kiss, we rant, we piss, we joke, we bliss, we mate, we miss over mobile.
I wonder what do we do with our bile, our guile?
Or if at all when we have a while?
And the media rants, raves and goes to the town, naked and trite
India is shackled, india is chained, nothing is moving, we are all immobile?
Comments about this poem (Mobile by Hardik Vaidya )
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